A Very Boring Night for Sherlock Holmes
by xNiltiac
Summary: One-Shot. Sherlock is bored, again. He decides to venture out into London in hopes of finding something interesting to challenge his depraved mind.


**Hello! I've had the urge to write this since I've been watching a bunch of Sherlock lately. Sorry if you see anything overwhelmingly American in here, as I am one, unfortunately. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of _Sherlock._**

Sherlock Holmes plucked absentmindedly at the strings on his violin. The stiff sound fell flat in the empty room. Empty but for him. John was out, off doing whatever it was he said before he left. It didn't matter; it was mundane. Everything was so _boring_ these past few days. Nothing interesting was coming up. Sure, there were murders, missing persons and objects, but nothing _interesting_. Nothing that could challenge Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly, the tall figure was on his feet. His violin was left on the chair he had been occupying and his coat and scarf found their way onto his body and his shoes onto his feet. He definitely won't find anything interesting by sitting around the flat.

Sherlock was going out.

_-S-S-S-_

The streets of central London were bustling. It was dinner time, so people were walking in couples and groups, leaving and entering restaurants and bars. Sherlock took long strides down the sidewalk, his hands in his coat pockets, retreated within his own mind as usual. His blank expression contrasted with the laughing and smiling people brushing past him. And yet... there was one other whose face didn't match the pleasantness on the streets. Sherlock had taken a turn down a much quieter street, at the same time that a young woman hurriedly flung herself out of the door of a small flat. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders and slightly shielded her profile, her hand had a white-knuckled grip on the stair railing, and the most interesting was her face. From what Sherlock could see, she was in some type of shock. Her eyes were wide, eyebrows raised, and mouth held agape. Sherlock noted that her coat was on, her scarf fastened around her neck, so she hadn't been in the flat long enough to get comfortable. Whatever she saw had already happened before she entered. And by the expression frozen on her face, it must have been horrible.

It hadn't taken him long to find something interesting, had it? Sherlock couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips.

He crossed the distance between him and the woman casually, pulling his hands out of his pockets and presenting himself as harmlessly as possible so as not to startle her, and stopped a few feet away. She didn't seem to notice him yet. "Hello," Sherlock's deep voice greeted carefully.

The woman's body jerked backwards at the sound of his voice, and she stared at him with wide eyes. Sherlock maintained a calm expression as he spoke again, "Are you alright?"

She blinked several times before she replied shakily, "He's… inside, he's—Call the police. We should call—" _American, _he noted. Unimportant, mildly interesting. Suddenly she was fumbling in her coat pockets, presumably for her cell phone, her hands visibly shaking.

"Stop."

The woman flinched at the firmness of his voice, and she did stop, freezing just as she was finally pulling her phone from her pocket. Sherlock pulled his own cell phone out and was talking to DI Lestrade in seconds, giving him the address and a brief summary of the situation, not bothering to answer the questions the Detective Inspector had before he hung up. He'd be there in minutes, which gave Sherlock little time to check out the scene undisturbed.

The young brunette stared at him as he passed her on the stairs. "Where are you going?" she questioned, still gripping the rail tightly.

"To study the scene." Sherlock pushed open the already slightly ajar door, finding himself in a tiny foyer. The stench that hit him immediately suggested that the body had been rotting for almost a day now. He followed the rancid smell into a room to his left, the sitting room by the look of it. There was one body, a middle-aged man, cold and blue-ish. He was upright on the couch, hands at his sides, feet on the floor, as if he'd just been watching television moments ago. An initial glance upon the scene didn't reveal anything horrifying, but after a closer inspection around the front of the body, Sherlock could see that the man's eyes were wide open. His white shirt was tattered and stained with blood. His mouth was open and filled with blood, but the red streaks on his chin suggested that blood had flowed over but had been wiped away.

"Odd," Sherlock murmured.

The tall man paced further around the room, noting that nothing showed any signs of struggle… except one thing. The lamp on the far side of the room, near the entrance to the foyer, was missing a light bulb. _Now why would that be?_ Sherlock started toward the kitchen, but was stopped by a yell.

"Sherlock! You know not to disturb a crime scene, especially before we've even gotten to it!" Lestrade was in the doorway to the flat, closely followed by his team.

"I haven't touched anything," Sherlock told him flatly. Lestrade still looked disapproving, but didn't say anything as he stepped out of the way, allowing his team to begin taking pictures and tagging the scene.

The Detective Inspector walked over and stood next to him, keeping his eyes on the body, his arms crossed. "Do you know the woman outside?" he asked suddenly.

Sherlock glanced out of the open door to see the young woman being questioned by an officer with a pad and pen. She appeared to still be in minor shock. "No."

"You just happened on the scene?" Lestrade said skeptically.

He raised an eyebrow at the detective. "Yes."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head in disbelief. "What have you figured out, then?" he inquired, sweeping a hand across the crime scene.

Sherlock began to move about the scene once more, his hands held tightly behind his back. He resumed his venture to the kitchen, quickly returning to speak with a satisfied expression on his pale face. "The killer regrets the murder," he began.

"How could you possibly know that?" a nasally voice asked behind him. Sherlock whirled around and glared at the interrupting man.

"When I want your input, Anderson, I will ask for it." He then turned back to Lestrade in a huff. "_As I was saying_, the killer is regretful. The man was stabbed repeatedly, blood should be covering the scene, but there is none to be seen except for on the shirt of the victim. You can still smell the cleaning supplies."

"So he cleaned up the mess, why does that mean he regretted it?" Lestrade wondered.

"He not only cleaned up the blood _around_ the body, he cleaned the blood _on _the body." Sherlock gestured to the red streaks on the victim's chin. "He moved the body from the initial spot of the murder and positioned him here, as if he's just having a sit."

"How do you know he wasn't just stabbed while he was sitting there?"

"Look. There are no blood stains on the couch. Even if he managed to somehow keep the splatter off of the couch, there's other evidence. Here," he pointed to the lamp without a light bulb. "This lamp was knocked over in a struggle. The light bulb busted, so the killer took it out and swept up the pieces. They're still in the bin in the kitchen. And—ah, the table the lamp is on. It's clearly moved away from its original position. You can see its spot worn on the floor here. The killer must have pulled the knife on him right here, starting a scuffle that pushed them into the table."

Sherlock's voice was picking up momentum with each piece of evidence he explained, and Lestrade couldn't hide the amazed expression he always had when the crazy genius showed off like that. "So he wanted to make it look like it never happened. Like he had never murdered that man."

"Precisely," Sherlock smirked, a bit slyly, at the detective. "The killer is probably somewhere trying to deny this ever happened."

Lestrade stroked his jaw, briefly silent, eyebrows raised without realizing he was showing Sherlock just how impressed he was. This of course gave the dark haired man reason to smirk once again. "So, how do you suggest we go about finding the person who did it?"

"Oh, Detective Inspector, can't you see? It's so simple." Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised he hadn't figured it out as well. "This man is the landlord of the two flats on either side of this one." When Lestrade raised a questioning brow, Sherlock gave him the answer to his unasked question by walking past the detective, bending over, and picking up an envelope that sat on the floor halfway hidden beneath the couch. He held it up for Lestrade to see the clear print on the cover. '_Rent._' "I assume the woman outside came to drop her rent off, discovered his body, and dropped this in the process of running out."

"Okay… so what does that tell us?"

Sherlock held his arm out towards the kitchen, silently suggesting the detective go in. Once there, Sherlock pointed out a white board hanging on the wall. It was a table: two names on a horizontal row and the twelve months written vertically across. "A check mark indicates paid rent, and an 'x' shows that the tenant had failed to pay. This _Gary Morris_ hasn't paid his rent in four months. I'm sure the landlord was getting ready to kick him out, but Gary just couldn't stand that."

"How can you be sure it's him?" Lestrade asked, wanting to believe it was that easy.

"Probably because I heard a car screeching off from next door shortly after you and your team of officers arrived."

"_Sherlock!"_

_-S-S-S-  
_

Sherlock Holmes was back on the streets, having left DI Lestrade to sort out the rest of the situation. Surely he could do the actual catching of the culprit. Either way, Sherlock had won. He had solved the case in about fifteen minutes flat. It was too easy. He had hoped for a challenge, but was presented with a open-and-shut case. _How boring._

People were still filling the sidewalk, still laughing and smiling. Sherlock looked at these people and knew them. Knew their job, their personal issues, their sexuality, their secrets. He never felt weighed down by this knowledge. Why should he? Noticing these things was as easy as just looking at them; he couldn't help it. It wasn't his problem that _he _ was cheating on his wife, or that _she _ was lying to her date, or that _that guy_ would never get with _that girl._ None of these things interested him.

Sherlock crossed the street with a group of other young adults that couldn't be any more different than him, dressed in bright clothes and shouting about simple-minded things. He was in the mood for coffee, and there was a quiet little shop that served an adequate cup just a block from where he was. He made his way there at a steady pace. _No reason to rush, _he thought. _The night is still young. Still boring. _

His entrance into the coffee shop was signaled by a little bell on the door. The only employee working, a teenaged boy with dyed red hair, didn't bother looking up from the magazine on the counter in front of him. A few customers filled the small tables and chairs in the interior of the shop, chatting quietly. Sherlock waltzed up to the counter and ordered a coffee, straight black. The teenager barely acknowledged him as he exchanged his money for a steaming cup.

Sherlock thought about leaving and drinking his coffee while walking, but finally decided on taking a seat near the window, catching a few of the customers' eyes with his odd look and demeanor.

He hadn't sat there long before the tiny bell on the door rang once more. A man walked in, his head down, looking pointedly at the floor. His hand was in his jacket pocket. Sherlock knew what was about to happen.

"No one move!" The man pulled the handgun out of his jacket and the patrons of the shop froze. Sherlock uncrossed his legs.

"Gimme all the money you got, boy!" He pointed the gun at the teenager, who had finally tore himself away from the magazine and looked absolutely terrified. The unnaturally redheaded boy went to open the register. Sherlock set his coffee gently on the table.

"Put it all in here!" The man produced a bag from under his jacket and set it on the counter. The boy began putting the unimpressive amount of money into it. Sherlock stood up silently.

"Zip the bag up!" He waved the gun in the teenager's face, who flinched violently and hurriedly did as he was told. Sherlock moved behind the gunman without a sound.

The man grabbed the bag and whirled around to run out, but was met with a dark haired figure several inches taller than he was. The gun was pointing at Sherlock, and he had startled the man so badly that he pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Sherlock punched the man so hard that he fell flat on the floor, his gun sliding across the tiles and away.

"Next time, check the safety on your gun," he quipped, massaging his hand and looking down at the pathetic form on the floor. He swiveled around on his foot and took a sip from his still warm coffee before leaving the shop as people stared in shock and a few went for their phones to call the police.

_-S-S-S-_

Sherlock Holmes continued his walk. A robbery? It gave him a rush of adrenaline, but it only lasted a few minutes. Where's the challenge? When will he be tested, instead of presented with these simple situations?

It was getting later. Less people filled the sidewalk, less people were laughing and smiling. Sherlock was close to giving up. That night was just destined to be a dull one.

All of a sudden, he was knocked almost off his feet as someone ran into him. A young boy apologized quickly and kept running down the sidewalk, avoiding looking him in the eye. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He felt his coat pocket to confirm what he expected. His wallet was gone. He sighed.

Sherlock started a full sprint after the boy, who noticed him begin to chase as he looked over his shoulder. His short figure wasn't too hard to see between the few people on the sidewalk, people who moved quickly out of his way with a few indignant cries. He wasn't as fast as the boy, but he wasn't having trouble keeping up as the kid didn't bother to make many turns. _He must be going to a specific location, _ Sherlock surmised. _Probably a trap._

His suspicions were confirmed as he turned down an alley following the boy. In it were two other men. _Part of a gang._

"There doesn't have to be any trouble," Sherlock offered peacefully, pausing at the entrance to the alleyway. "Just give me my wallet back."

"What makes ya think it'd be any kind of trouble to mess you up?" One of then men asked. They were dressed typically in baggy clothes. Only hinders movement.

Sherlock didn't answer, he just smirked.

"Hey, I don' like the look on yer face," the other man interjected, waddling forward with the first man who spoke following him. It wasn't very intimidating to Sherlock.

The boy stood slightly behind the others, grinning and waving his wallet in the air like he'd had a victory. _We'll see about that._

Before their tiny little minds could even begin to process a thought, Sherlock had swept the feet out from under one of the men and punched the other onto the ground. The man whose legs he'd kicked out from under him tried to get up, but Sherlock stepped on his throat only hard enough to make it difficult to breathe and keep him on the ground. The other man was rolling around clutching his broken, bleeding nose.

"My wallet, please." He held out his hand to the boy, who stayed frozen for only a moment before dropping his wallet and running away.

_-S-S-S-_

Sherlock Holmes decided to go back home. He was not going to find a challenge tonight it seemed. Maybe tomorrow would bring better prospects.

When he entered the flat, he immediately noticed that John had still not come home. It wasn't yet midnight, so Sherlock wasn't troubled too much by his absence. He shed his coat and scarf, picked up his violin, and resumed his absentminded string-plucking with a sigh.

Some time passed, and finally John Watson came through the door to see Sherlock just how he left him. He shook his head, amused at his friend's behavior.

"Sorry I was out late," John started to explain, "I ran into a mate from school. We had drinks." Sherlock didn't reply, so John fell into the chair across from him, listening to the mildly melodic sound of the violin strings being plucked by Sherlock's slender, white fingers. Finally he asked, "What've you been up to, then?"

Sherlock threw his head back against the chair and groaned, "Nothing _interesting._"

_-S-S-S-_

**Let me know what you thought! :)**


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